The Wolf of Hjaalmarch
by Roove
Summary: A short story involving Kellen Stonehand, a Nord I made once in Skyrim. Though I didn't progress far through the game with him before deleting that save file, I'll occasionally remake him for testing out mods. For the sake of minor character building, I always immediately infect him with lycanthropy (via console commands).


"The heart is the first thing to swell, long before the lungs or bones shift to accommodate it. This may account for the intense chest pains that some of the afflicted report directly before their changes."

 _\- Physicalities of Werewolves_ , Reman Crex

* * *

The agonizing process happened as it had during every moon cycle before. There was the sharp, aching tension in his chest, the groaning and cracking of bones, the tearing and stretching of ligaments, his skull contorting and lengthening... That obnoxious prickling sensation on every patch of skin was nothing more than afterthought. The last thing to go was his mind; Kellen Stonehand had only been granted a couple seconds more of consciousness before the strain in his darkening eyes had been replaced with a primal hunger.

What resonated most in the frigid air: the methodical crunching of paws plodding over snow or the rumble from the beast's belly? His stomach churning every few minutes, every guttural whine was a prayer to Hircine himself. A pink tongue lolled lazily from his snout, though every once in a while it would flick to lick over sharp teeth embedded in pitch black gums. The panting maw was stark against his pale fur, which meshed perfectly with Hjaalmarch. Hazy eyed and weary, he was alert all the same as his nostrils would flare every so often. What the beast would have given for an unfortunate elk to run across his path. No creature was stupid enough to venture so close to one of Hircine's own children, however. Just as a bloated moon scared away the stars, lesser beasts fled before man beasts. The white wolf never had the luxury of staying close to home for his next meal.

Another rumble echoed from his stomach, warning him that he had to _feed_. His tongue flicked over his salivating jaws once again as he stalked through the silver forest. Never pausing in his gait, the beast's nostrils rapidly flared as the scents from the forest wafted toward him. Against the musk and frigid air there came the scent of burning wood and hot home cooked meals. There was a village nearby, which would surely be winding down for the evening. If he had been fully conscious, then he would have recognized that the small mining community of Stonehills was in his radar. In his current state, such an idea was beyond him, though his animal mind was wisened enough to realize that there weren't any elk nearby. Maybe something else would be on the menu tonight.

All it took was one whiff to set off something instinctual in the wolf. The desire to hunt was overwhelming. It took him no time to make it to the settlement with his abnormally long strides. He only paused when he reached the edge of the forest, eyes darting over the scene below him with a rabid hunger. Quickly surveying the area, he noticed a young Nord girl whose back was to the beast. She was alone, cloaked in burgundy, and carrying a wicker basket with goods bundled in a patchwork blanket.

Nobody saw him in time to cry out and, by the time his prey heard the approaching beast, she had only just turned around. Yes, there was a twinge of... Whatever it was hummed in his chest, as if it were trying to reach out and stop him. This certainly wasn't a new feeling. The beast had felt it a few times before during the hunt, especially during the first transformations. Lately, however, they had reappeared after being violently squashed over many moon cycles.

What was it his alpha had told him? Hircine's influence had weakened?

Hardly a coherent thought now.

Grasping claws as silent as sin, he closed the distance between him and the girl within seconds and set upon her. The whites of her eyes were only visible for just a second before she held the basket up to her face and shrieked, sweet rolls spilling into the snow. Normally, she would have been dead on impact and been dragged away to a safe place for the wolf to feast. Fortunately for her, the wolf's jaws had closed around her basket. Her head, framed by her blonde hair in the snow, remained untouched if only for the time being.

More frenzied shrieks from her and villagers began cautiously peeking out from their windows and doors to see what could have possibly been happening. What had caused such a stir at this hour? There was the monster, its writhing shape evident against the otherwise steadfast backdrop. Its bared, gnashing teeth were far larger than any normal wolf's should have been. The elongated legs, hand-like paws, and upright stance revealed what it was. It was as blatant as blood on snow. Cries of alarm rung out, though the werewolf himself hardly took note of them.

The girl was screaming, thrashing, her frail fists beating at the wolf as hard as they could. Such a pitiful creature wasn't made for combat, with her delicate features and porcelain, unscarred skin.

He needed it. What was he hesitating for?

His jaws clamped around her head, her screams becoming muffled as she clawed at the wolf's head. The beast did possess eyes, so gouging a thin finger into one was possible if only she could find them. Her struggle was of no avail. The wolf's jaws clenched, then she fell silent.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through the beast's shoulder. Ignoring the sore heat radiating from that body part, a snarl tore through the air as he spotted an arrow sticking from his upper arm. His frenzied hunger for the girl was nonexistent now that someone had dared to strike him. Whatever fool thought themselves brave enough to go after the lycanthrope would pay dearly. The village guard, of course, as the beast noted. Such a small community had few guards. The human Kellen would have guessed that all of them were sent by Morthal's jarl or perhaps even locally trained. They were certainly no Silver Hand. How were they any different than an angry mob with pitchforks? Some of them had crossbows, but their aim appeared to be quite poor in the night, considering that the wide expanse of snow _around_ the wolf was being pelted with bolts.

With a low rumble, the wolf tore away from the lifeless girl and charged towards the small village. He was upon the town guard in an instant. Wooden doors slammed and lights were put out as the townsfolk retreated into the supposed safety of their homes. At the current moment, they were off the beast's radar as it was busy slaughtering the only militia they had. It would only be a matter of time before it turned on them as well. The night was still young.


End file.
